


Til death do us part

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (except not really), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Insecurity, Lack of Communication, Lies, M/M, Memory Loss, Mycroft has so many issues, alussion to past infidelity, and John and Sherlock are together, because Greg and Mycroft are married, but there's no real reference to canon so there's that, due the amnesia bit, even if he doesn't remember them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Things have been going badly at the Holmes-Lestrade’s household for some time, when an unfortunate accident makes Mycroft forget the last year.Can this be Greg's chance to win his husband back? And more importantly, should he take it?





	1. The accident

**Author's Note:**

> I’d say something about my absolute lack of self restraint when it comes to starting new fics… but it’s a bit redundant at this point, isn’t it? :p That being said, this idea got hold of me and wouldn't let go. In fact, I started working on it even before I started working on Maybe in Rome, but since that ended up being a one-shot, I figured this one could wait.  
> The idea came to me as I was remembering the movie “The Vow”. Don’t ask me why I was thinking about the movie in the first place; something about love and people being meant to be or something (I think about weird things in the early hours of the morning). Anyway… enough of my ramblings and on with the story!  
> Enjoy!

The white walls are driving him insane, not to mention the so characteristic smell of the hospital waiting room. The nurse at the front desk has been glaring at him for the last 20 minutes and he understands why his pacing might make other visitors nervous but he just can’t sit still. If he does, he fears he’ll break down.

John had asked if he wanted them to meet him at the hospital. In the background, Greg could hear Sherlock yelling “of course not” and Greg had smiled briefly, thinking the other man does know him too well. He had thanked John for the offer but had assured him he was fine. He wasn’t, of course, but having people around to see his slow descent into madness due worry wouldn’t help the matters one bit.

The clock on the wall says it’s two o’clock in the morning. It’s been one hour since Mycroft went into surgery and surely they should have news by now? This long wait can’t be a good thing, should he--?

“Mr. Holmes-Lestrade?”

Greg turns around immediately, heart in his throat. There’s a doctor standing in the middle of the hall and he hurries to approach her, all the while trying to get his breathing under control. “Yes?” he prompts, his voice barely audible, nerves and tiredness making his throat feel too dry.

“Your husband is out of surgery,” she says, smiling in a gentle manner. “He’s still asleep and we’d prefer to keep him sedated for a little longer, but he’s out of danger right now.”

Thank god. “Can I see him?”

The doctor shakes her head once, expression contrite. “I’m sorry. That won’t be possible tonight, I’m afraid.”

That’s not ideal, of course, but as long as Mycroft is fine… “Alright. Thank you, Dr.--?”

“Stevens,” the woman introduces herself, offering her hand to shake. “Do not fret, Mr. Holmes-Lestrade. Your husband is fine, his injury wasn’t as worrisome as we originally feared, but one can never be too careful with head injuries.”

“Of course,” Greg says, although the words don’t really ease his anxiety. Then again, he supposes he won’t feel better until he sees Mycroft’s state for himself. “Again, thank you so much, Dr. Stevens.”

The doctor smiles placidly before turning on her heel and going back through the doors that lead to the operation rooms. Greg sighs, collapsing on one of the uncomfortable chairs, rubbing his temples tiredly. Things with Mycroft have been… _strained_ lately, but he loves the man and he can’t help worrying.

He recalls their morning argument and he flinches. It seems that’s all they do nowadays: argue. Over trivial things and not so trivial ones. Old buried discussions keep being brought up and there are days when Greg feels like just giving up. He has gone through a divorce once already and he’s beginning to wonder if maybe he’s just not meant to have a happy healthy relationship.

The problem is that he doesn’t know what happened to them. They’ve always had busy schedules and little time to spend together, but that never seemed a problem before. He has always understood Mycroft’s need for secrecy about the things he does and he has never pressed for answers that aren’t freely given. But lately… lately his husband seems to be permanently on edge, snapping at him over every little thing.

He has tried to be patient, giving Mycroft all the time and space he seems to need but it hasn’t helped matters one bit. He has tried everything he can think of and yet it just seems to anger his husband further. He wishes he understood what he did wrong, but of course Mycroft has refused to explain. In fact--

_There’s nothing to do. Things between us have simply run their course._

The words felt like a punch on the stomach or maybe even a bullet through the heart. He remembers begging Mycroft not to go, to talk to him, but his husband had remained unmoved, claiming to have a very important meeting and had left without even looking back.

And now this. As if Greg needed any more heartbreak.

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. Getting upset will be doing him no favours and is important he’s as collected as possible when he sees Mycroft next.

After all, there’s just too much hanging on how their next conversation goes.

* * *

 

Greg takes one last deep breath before pushing the door open, trying to smile and failing miserably: he’s just too tired and feeling too much to try to put on a cheerful facade.

Mycroft is already awake, gazing outside the window absentmindedly, but he turns around at the sound of the door opening. Greg expects a cold greeting but against all his expectations, his husband’s face brightens up immediately, a wide smile on his lips.

“Oh my dear, I’m so sorry for making you worry,” Mycroft says, gesturing for him to get closer, smile firmly in place. “Gregory, are you quite alright?” he asks, frowning a little when Greg fails to move. “Gregory, please, come here.” He opens his arms, with the very obvious intention of hugging Greg and the inspector nearly collapses in his husband’s arms, not understanding what’s happening, but not particularly caring when Mycroft’s arms wrap themselves around him.

“I’m so sorry,” Mycroft repeats, rubbing his back comfortingly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s not as bad as it seems, I swear.”

His head has been bandaged and there’s some swelling on the left side of his face, but that’s not what’s making Greg react so strongly. However, he’s reluctant to address the real reason of his emotional distress, not wanting to bring up the current status of their relationship, not when Mycroft is acting so affectionate.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes-Lestrade.” The door has opened once more and Dr. Stevens steps in. She looks a bit worse for wear, it seems she had a difficult night at the hospital. “Good to see you again. I’m afraid I have… some news for you.”

Greg pulls away form his husband’s embrace reluctantly, but he knows Mycroft isn’t really a fan of PDA. Mycroft however takes his hand in his and squeezes once, as he used to do when they just started dating and they happened to be in public. He was never particularly affectionate in public, but he always liked holding hands.

At least until recently, of course.

“Yes?” he prompts, when the doctor doesn’t add anything else, busy reviewing Mycroft’s vitals.

“I’m afraid the damage was a little more severe than we originally thought and Mr. Holmes-Lestrade is suffering of a light amnesia,” the doctor says, turning her attention back to them.

“Ah,” Mycroft murmurs, nodding along. “That explains why I can’t remember the date.”

Greg’s heart has sinked to his feet. So Mycroft’s affectionate reception-- “How… how bad is it?”

“I’m afraid we can’t tell for sure,” Dr. Stevens says, smiling a little. “But he seems to remember you just fine, so that’s a good thing.” She smiles brightly, completely oblivious to Greg’s breaking heart.

“My husband would be a little hard to forget,” Mycroft says, smiling too.

The doctor laughs. “It always cheers me up to see a happy couple,” she says. “So I suppose it’s safe to say you’ll be in good hands, Mr. Holmes-Lestrade. The problem with amnesia is that it’s hard to predict when or if your memories will come back at all. It doesn’t seem the damage is too severe, but I’d advice to take it easy for a few days. Routine is helpful in these cases and I’d advise against forcing yourself to remember. It probably won’t help and it’s likely to give you headaches.”

Mycroft hums in acknowledgement. “I’m sure both my husband and my assistant can help me with everything I have seemingly forgotten.”

Oh god. How is he supposed to do that? “Yes, of course,” Greg agrees, dread filling his every pore. How can he tell Mycroft they aren’t exactly on the best of terms? The other man smiles at him and Greg has to look away, his stomach twisted in worry.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dr. Stevens says, nodding. “Well then, there’s no much point in keeping you here since everything seems to be in working order. Just wait a minute and I’ll have someone discharge you, alright?”

“Thank you,” Mycroft says and Greg lets go of his hand, making Mycroft frown.

“I just need a quick word with the doctor,” he assures his husband, trying to smile reassuringly. He doesn’t think he succeeds, based on Mycroft’s expression.

Dr. Stevens turns to him expectantly, closing the door after them. She smiles pleasantly, hands clasped in front of her. “You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Holmes-Lestrade. Memory loss is--”

“Which is the likelihood of Mycroft recovering his memory?” he interrupts sharply, heart in his throat. The doctor blinks, surprised by his tone and he’d normally feel embarrassed for being so curt, but right now he has bigger concerns.

“It’s impossible to tell for sure,” she says finally, watching him closely. “As I said, routine--”

“Yes, but…” he interrupts again, trying to keep himself from being rude. “If you had to take a guess… would you say it’s very possible he will?”

Dr. Steves sighs, looking around briefly. “I can’t make any promises, Mr. Holmes-Lestrade. I’ve seen patients who wake up one day remembering everything and some who never remember a single thing. I had a particular case where the wife didn’t even remember meeting her husband and she never did, so… all in all, I think you were lucky.”

Lucky. Greg has to suppress his urge to laugh hysterically. “Of course, I’m sorry. I just… I’d like to be prepared, you know?”

The woman smiles compassionately and she reaches out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Mr. Holmes-Lestrade. Some people find it frustrating not being able to remember things on their own, but you just need to be patient. Sometimes small details are easier to remember than the bigger things, so… there’s really no predicting what will happen.”

Greg nods, stomach twisted with anxiety. What is he supposed to do in this case? “I understand. Thank you, Dr. Stevens. And sorry for…”

“It’s fine. It’s always hard to see the people we love hurt; your husband is very lucky to have someone who loves him so dearly,” she tells him, tone perhaps a tad wistful and she produces a call card from her doctor’s coat. “Here. Call me if you need anything or if you have any concerns.”

Greg nods once again. “Thank you,” he repeats a little uselessly. He’s not reassured, not at all, but there’s nothing to be done.

The doctor nods, turning around and disappearing down the hall. Greg stays where he is, trying to get his emotions back under control before facing Mycroft once again.

God. What sort of hell is this?

And what did he do to deserve it?

* * *

 

“Gregory?”

Greg freezes on the spot, feeling like a thief who’s been caught red handed. He closes his eyes, telling himself he can do this and he peeks into the room he used to share with his husband. Mycroft is already in bed, covers carefully wrapped around himself, his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a book resting on his lap. The scene is so terribly domestic that it makes Greg ache fiercely: once upon a time it was a common occurrence to see his husband like this and now--

“Yes?” he asks, careful to keep his face from betraying his feelings. Mycroft is watching him funnily, a light frown on his face.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asks finally, after a too lengthy pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, aren’t you going to come to bed?” his partner asks, patting the spot next to him, looking oddly dejected and Greg’s heart constricts painfully inside his chest. “It’s late and you’ve got work tomorrow.”

Yes and that’s exactly why Greg was planning on heading to bed just before his husband called for him. How is he supposed to explain, however, that they haven’t shared a bed for six months, maybe even longer? How can he explain that Mycroft pretty much banished him from their married bed and into what used to be the guest bedroom?

“I…” he begins, chewing on his lip guiltily. He doesn’t want to explain, but he doesn’t want to deceive Mycroft either. “Yes, I was just…” he trails off awkwardly as he watches Mycroft’s confused and hurt expression. Damn it all. “Of course,” he finishes lamely, slipping into the room. His husband smiles at him and puts his book away, turning onto his side, waiting for Greg to get into the bed.

Greg does, even if there’s a voice in the back of his head informing him this is a colossally bad idea. But what else is he supposed to do? He could tell Mycroft the truth of their strained relationship, but how can he explain it, when he doesn’t even understand it himself? He knows he still loves his husband and that he’d do anything to win him back, but based on their last conversation prior the accident, it seemed like Mycroft didn’t feel the same way, so…

“Oh, no no no,” he says, pushing his husband off him when he climbs into his lap. His body is already reacting to the contact, having gone without it for so long. He keeps Mycroft at arm's length, his heart beating madly, mind a complete mess.

“Gregory? What’s wrong?” his partner asks, the look of confusion and hurt returning. Guilt curls in Greg’s abdomen: he should… maybe he should…

“You’ve just come home from the hospital,” Greg says, in his best conciliatory tone, avoiding Mycroft’s eye. “You were hurt.”

There’s a brief, tense pause and then Mycroft pouts but relents, lying down once more, resting his head on Greg’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says petulantly. “I just have mild amnesia. But I do remember my husband and I want--”

“The doctor said you should take it easy,” Greg interrupts, closing his eyes tightly. Dear god, what did he do to deserve this? “I’m sorry, I just--”

Mycroft sighs dramatically. “I understand. Do you recall the last time you were hurt on the job?”

Greg isn’t sure what Mycroft recalls as his last injury, but he doesn’t say as much. Things have always worked out more or less the same: Mycroft worries to death and then he gets terribly overprotective until it annoys Greg to the point of saying something. They argue a little and then they make up.

Except that might not have been the case if he had gotten injured in the last six months or so, but he didn’t and so he doesn’t want to even think about that.

“Yes, exactly,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. “I just… I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Mycroft hums in acknowledgment, curling closer to him, throwing an arm and a leg around Greg’s body, like an overly cuddly octopus. “Alright. But I expect you to make it up to me in a couple of days.”

Greg doesn’t answer, busy as he is trying to keep his tears at bay.

How is he going to survive this?


	2. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the new chapter! Last week was super slow at work but of course that this one was crazy :P Still, I managed to finish this one! Hope you’ll enjoy it ;)

“Memory loss is tricky,” John says, tone thoughtful, watching Greg’s reaction closely. In all honesty, he has no idea how the other man is managing to hold up. “As the doctor told you, he might remember everything or just bits and pieces or nothing at all. It’s impossible to tell for sure.”

Greg sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “What am I going to do, John? I can’t… I can’t tell him the truth, can I?”

John bites his lip, looking in the direction of the living room where Mycroft and Sherlock are already arguing over something. He wonders briefly why can’t they show affection like regular brothers and then it occurs him that he and Harry aren’t much better. “I don’t know what to tell you, Greg,” he says finally, noticing Greg is staring at him expectantly. “That’s a tricky one.”

“It’s just… he’s so affectionate. Just as he was at the beginning: holding my hand, hugging me at every given chance. John, I can’t… for so long I thought… and now…” Greg takes a deep breath, trying to get his emotions back under control. John doesn’t answer, knowing Greg won’t appreciate his pity and also completely uncertain of what he could possibly say to help. 

“I know this is hard on you Greg, and I wish there was something I could tell you that’d help. But I’m afraid there’s really no easy answer.” He squeezes the other man’s shoulder in silent support and Greg nods tightly. “Just know you can count on us if you need anything, alright?” Although he mostly means himself, of course. For all Sherlock cares, he’s not very good at showing it (or, god forbid, being empathic).

Greg nods again, biting his lip harshly. John tries to smile and fails miserably: he can’t imagine the particular kind of hell his friend must be living. He hadn’t understood Mycroft’s sudden change either but he had hoped things would sort themselves out eventually. After all, anyone with eyes could see how madly in love he was with Greg, so it wouldn’t have made one bit of sense for him to push him away definitely.

Then again… Holmes have weird ideas about  _ attachments.  _ John blames their parents, of course, but saying as much had earned him a very nasty glare from his boyfriend, so he hadn’t brought up the subject again.

He watches as Greg finishes making dinner and helps him serve it, all the while thinking there’s truly no easy answer to his dilemma.

And there’s not much they can do either.

* * *

 

Greg sees their not-completely-unexpected guests to the building’s front door and he stands there for a while, staring at nothing in particular. His conversation with John shed no new light on his dilemma and he’s all out of ideas. He should tell Mycroft something, but what?

_ Oh, by the way, two days ago you pretty much implied we were getting a divorce. _

He lets out an unamused chuckle. Oh, that would go splendidly. Mycroft might not have any recollection of why he said so, but Greg has no doubt he’d go through with it anyway, imagining he had had good reasons for it. That’s the thing about his husband: once he has made up his mind about something, there’s no changing it.

He rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. It feels wrong to take advantage of Mycroft’s unfortunate accident, but it might be Greg’s chance to win his husband back. After all, this Mycroft seems to be pretty much in love with him, so all Greg has to do is prove himself worthy of keeping his love. Maybe then, even if Mycroft does get his memories back, he’ll be willing to give him a second chance.

Of course that might just backfire horribly. It might convince Mycroft that Greg is not trustworthy and cement his decision of getting divorced. 

And there are of course the moral implications. Is he taking advantage of the circumstances? 

Oh god, what a mess.

* * *

 

Mycroft is already in bed when Greg finally comes upstairs. His husband watches him closely as he gets ready for bed, not saying a word, probably sensing there’s something amiss. He has always been able to read Greg as an open book, so he can probably tell there’s something he’s not telling him. Then again, Mycroft has always respected his boundaries, never pressing for answers Greg isn’t willing to give and that just makes him feel even guiltier.

“I love you, you know?” Greg murmurs, once he has slipped under the covers, caressing his partner’s face tenderly, a small sad smile on his lips. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mycroft’s frowning a little and he slips closer to him, nuzzling Greg’s jaw tenderly. “I love you too. And I can’t promise… you know there’s some risk inherent to my job, but otherwise… you’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

Greg closes his eyes, feeling fresh tears slipping down his cheeks. 

If only…

* * *

 

The problem, Greg reflects, is that he’s not sure how he’s supposed to prove himself worthy of his husband’s love. There’s really nothing that comes to mind that he has been remiss in: surely there’s something he forgot to do or hasn’t been doing right, but what?

He sighs, scrambling the eggs he’s making with perhaps too much strength. He’s frustrated mostly; how is he supposed to win Mycroft’s love back when he doesn’t even know how he lost it in the first place?

It must have been something terrible, he thinks. He must have done something truly horrible for Mycroft to consider divorce without wanting to talk things through. This Mycroft is evidently very much in love with him, dotting on him and covering him in attention, so what did Greg do to lose it all in so little time? 

“You look troubled,” Mycroft says, draping himself over him like a blanket and Greg leans back into the touch immediately. He has always liked the fact his husband is taller than him, making this hugging-from-behind business so very enjoyable and he has always treasured how affectionate he can get when they’re on their own. Most people wouldn’t believe Mycroft capable of such demonstrations and yet--

“This last few days have been… difficult,” he murmurs, eyes still fixed on the food he’s making, although he’s not paying attention to it. 

His husband hums, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “That’s one way to call it,” he murmurs, now sucking lightly on Greg’s jaw, drawing a moan from him. “I think I’m feeling much better now. Not that I was feeling ill to begin with, but…”

Greg chuckles, ignoring the way his heart is constricting painfully inside his chest. “Is this your way of telling me you’re going back to work today?” he asks, careful to keep his tone light and playful.

“Yes,” Mycroft deadpans, making Greg roll his eyes dramatically. Before he can’t protest though, his husband is kissing his jaw once more, one hand on his hip, pulling Greg towards him. “But before I do, I have other things in mind.”

This is dangerous territory. “Breakfast--”

“--is ruined. Or haven’t you noticed those eggs are burnt?”

Crap. He had meant to bring his husband some nice breakfast to bed or, failing that (since Mycroft normally refuses to lie in bed for long once he has woken up), bring it to their dinner table. He’s a man on a mission and while he might have no idea whatsoever how he won his husband over the first time around, he thought he’d stick to the clasic techniques until he could come up with a better plan.

“My dear, is everything quite alright?” Mycroft asks, probably sensing his dark mood and Greg sighs, turning off the stove and turning in his husband’s arms, hugging him close and allowing himself to bask in the warm embrace. Mycroft seems puzzled, but he doesn’t protest, simply hugging Greg back.

“I really don’t want to lose you,” he murmurs against his partner’s chest. He can practically feel the confusion radiating from the other man, but while it’s obvious he wants to ask, he’s simply too respectful of Greg’s privacy to press for answers he’s unwilling to give.

Was that the problem? Greg’s tendency to keep certain things to himself? It hardly seems fair, considering all the secrets Mycroft himself keeps. Granted, they’re mostly work related although there are certain subjects (family matters, mostly) that Greg has learned are off limits, so it seems a bit hypocritical--

“Gregory,” Mycroft says, in that tone that implies he thinks his interlocutor is being rather silly, but that he always manages to infuse with some warmth and affection when he directs it to Greg. “Other than death itself, there’s nothing in this world that could make you lose me.”

Greg buries his face in Mycroft’s chest, unwilling to look at him in the eye, knowing his husband will know immediately what he’s thinking if he does.

If he only knew.

* * *

 

Work is a welcome distraction, the rather difficult case he’s just been handed a gift from above. It’s a rather morbid thought, he imagines, but he can’t bring himself to care overly much. Anything that helps him take his mind off his current problem is a good thing in his book.

Even if said thing happens to be a rather gruesome murder.

But then of course, things get even more complicated and time becomes the essence, the need to capture the murderer as quick as possible forcing him to contact his dear brother-in-law. His relationship with Sherlock is… complicated, to say at least but he does know the younger man cares although he suspects that the last thing he needs right now is Sherlock’s particular brand of caring.

With any luck, his focus will stay on the case and he won’t bring up the subject of his brother’s recent memory loss and what it might mean for their relationship.

One can only hope.

* * *

 

As luck will have it, the case gets solved before midnight. While he’s dead on his feet, Greg can feel the usual satisfaction of a job done well and he allows himself a little smile as he watches the criminal being taken away. 

He looks in the general direction of John and Sherlock, who are with the paramedics. As usual, Sherlock has done something foolish and gotten himself injured and, also as usual, John is arguing with him, although he knows there’s little use to it: Sherlock always ends up doing as he thinks best.

He shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips as he approaches the pair. Then he freezes on the spot when he sees a black car parking not so far away from the ambulance and his husband steps out of it shortly after.

Greg rubs his temples tiredly, once again painfully aware of his personal problems.

By the time he finally makes his way to the ambulance, Mycroft and Sherlock are in a full blown argument. Understanding the brothers’ dynamic is out of the realms of possibility for the average human being, so Greg has stopped trying. They do care  for each other, in their own weird way and he supposes that’s the important thing even if they have…  _ funny  _ ways of showing it.

Mycroft interrupts himself when he sees him, throwing a quick smile in his direction. Greg tries to smile back, but fails, tiredness catching up with him. He has had a rather hellish week and if you add this criminal chase to it…

“You’re tired,” his husband states, rather uselessly, apparently having forgotten about his discussion with Sherlock, his whole attention on him now. He moves closer and Greg’s lips curve upwards very briefly.

“Stating the obvious, really? Who’s the tired one?”

Mycroft smiles. An honest, full blown smile and Greg’s heart stops in his chest. He has been getting lots of smiles these past few days and for a man starved of affection, they had felt heaven sent. This smile though… this particular smile that has always been reserved for him…

“I think it’s time for us to head home,” Mycroft says, smiling still, placing a hand on the small of Greg’s back to guide him in the direction of the car. “Besides, I think we left some unfinished business this morning?”

Greg laughs, for a moment forgetting this is all an illusion, forgetting all the heartbreak and pain he has endured for over six months. For a moment, is like nothing has changed at all and he and his husband are just as in love with each other as ever. “You’re incorrigible,” he says fondly, squeezing Mycroft’s hand, still mindful they’re in public.

Mycroft smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to Greg’s lips. It’s chaste, really, but not something Mycroft does often outside the privacy of their own home. “Guilty as charged,” he murmurs in a soft, suggestive tone that sends a shiver down Greg’s spine.

He’s grinning now, he realizes, all too eager to get home already. As they reach the car, he half turns, remembering John and Sherlock, intending to wave them goodbye and then he catches the look of pity in John’s eye and Sherlock’s guilty expression and the memories of these last six months come back in a rush.

It feels like being drenched by a bucket of cold water. 

God, it’ll never get easier, will it?

* * *

 

“John? Are you alright?”

Sherlock’s voice startles John out of his quiet contemplation. “Yes, fine,” he says, trying to smile as he turns towards his partner. Sherlock watches him in silence, a mighty frown on his face that says he doesn’t believe him. John sighs, shaking his head and turning towards the window once more. “Sorry, I’m just thinking.”

“About what?” Sherlock asks, tone serious, for once not making a quip about John thinking. He must sense the pensive mood John is in, so close to turning into a dark one and so he doesn’t want to upset him.

“This whole… issue with your brother,” John answers truthfully. “I… poor Greg. I can’t imagine what he must be going through.”

“It must be… difficult indeed,” Sherlock agrees quietly and from the corner of his eye John can see him coming closer. 

“I just… if it was me, I don’t think…” John sighs, turning to Sherlock, expression haunted. “Do you think he should tell Mycroft the truth?”

Sherlock bites his lip. “John, I don’t--”

“He’s your brother, surely--”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock interrupts sternly, grabbing John by the wrists. “I-- Mycroft had had the divorce papers drawn.”

“What?” John asks, baffled. He had known things between Greg and Mycroft were a little… difficult, but he hadn’t thought-- “When?”

Sherlock shrugs. “A week or so ago. I don’t think he had told Lestrade yet, though.”

John covers his mouth, suddenly feeling sick. “We should tell Greg.  _ You _ should have told Greg,” he adds, tone reprehensive. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Of what use would that be? And do you really think now is the best moment to tell him?”

That gives John pause and finally he shakes his head, knowing the other man is right. Still, it sits ill with him. Greg is their friend and they should say something so he might be prepared since he doubts Mycroft will give him much time to assimilate the idea. Then again--

“It might be for the best if he doesn’t recover his memory.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and John turns to him expectantly. “Indeed,” he agrees finally, although he sounds far from convinced and John sighs, turning back to his contemplation of the mostly empty street.

God, what an awful mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I had briefly considered having the whole chapter run from John and Sherlock’s POV, but it didn’t seem to be working, so I changed it :P I hope the change of POVs wasn’t terribly confusing?  
> Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!


	3. The truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m so sorry for the late update, but I’m afraid this week was quite… eventful. I had prepared several meetings across the week and made my notes for them, although I ended up not attending them since my father-in-law passed away on Monday. Between attending the funeral and then catching up with work I had little time for writing… but here I am again!   
> Now, this chapter is… well. Here’s the reason for the tag “allusion to past infidelity”, although I don’t think it’s quite as bad? Also, I guess it depends on your definition of infidelity and we still don’t have all the facts so… I just thought I’d give you fair warning ;)  
> I hope you’ll enjoy it, nevertheless!

A good memory is both a blessing and a curse.

Remembering  _ everything,  _ even the simplest details, is quite useful in Mycroft’s line of work, but the problem is that his near perfect memory also extends to every single experience he has lived. Considering his…  _ less-than-ideal  _ childhood, that’s most definitely not a good thing.

He has learned to live with such memories though and has learned to push them to the farthest side of his mind, where they can do little damage nowadays. Of course there are times when the resurface, sending him in terrible dark moods, but overall… 

It works for him.

And yet, when he had first woken up at the hospital, it had been like his whole memory had been whipped out, which had made him panic. But keeping a poker face has become second nature to him, so he had reacted perfectly calm when Dr. Stevens had come in and started explaining what had happened to him.

As she talked, memories started filtering back, piece by piece. The more she talked the more he remembered and so he allowed himself to relax: the blankness of his memory was just temporal and something he didn’t need to worry about. To his great shame, he must admit he didn’t remember his husband at first, but when the doctor had mentioned him--

The rush of affection he had felt at the single mention of “your husband” had left him dizzy and so when the memories started coming back, he couldn’t help the smile that came unbidden to his lips. He recalled endless months of silent pining, thinking his affection would remain forever unspoken and unacted on; the quiet elation when Gregory finally divorced that horrid woman and the sudden despair at the thought that it changed little. His awkward attempts of flirting, their even more awkward and perhaps a tad rushed courtship. Getting down in one knee, something he never imagined he would actually do and Gregory’s soft  _ I do. _

It was bliss. Utter bliss. Just how many people gets the chance of falling in love all over again and in the span of just a few minutes? Every emotion he ever felt came back to him slowly but steadily, Dr. Stevens’ voice a comforting noise in the background.

He had thought he knew everything he could possibly need to know. 

A part of his memories were still missing, of course, but he figured it couldn’t be terribly important. He had stayed at home for a couple of days after the accident mostly to appease his husband, who seemed quite shaken by the whole incident. Mycroft understood, of course and so he didn’t protest (much). But finally he had become too bored doing nothing but laying in bed and so he had gone back to work, immersing himself in his usual routine.

More memories started coming back. It seemed that all he needed to do was read Anthea’s or his own notes and suddenly every little work-related detail came back to him. It was useful, of course and so he thought little of it.

The memories of his personal life though… well, those were trickier. And there was a part of him that felt awfully guilty at the fact that remembering his work was easier than remembering his relationship, but then, he’s always been a very work-oriented person. From what he remembers, Gregory doesn’t actually resent that and, seeing he’s quite dedicated to his own work, it was never a source of tension between them.

But now it’s been a week since he was released from the hospital and he’s beginning to question everything he knows.

Gregory is acting… strange, to say at least. There’s something he’s not telling him, that’s easy enough to see, but Mycroft can’t figure out what. And the worst part, the absolute worst, is that he can’t understand why his husband won’t talk to him. 

Something is missing. A big chunk of his memories is missing and he suspects it’s something quite relevant. He’s no longer convinced that the bliss and happiness he remembers are the entire truth and sure enough, every couple has arguments and disagreements but what exactly is going on between him and Gregory that has drove such a wedge between them?

And what can he do to repair it?

* * *

 

Mycroft wakes up, heart beating loud and painful inside his chest.

He sits up immediately, his head aching now fiercely too, but he ignores his incoming migraine in favor of chasing after the errant memory that came to him just a few seconds earlier and that woke him up in the first place.

Good god, Gregory’s expression had been…  _ devastating.  _ His eyes pleading, tears shining in them. His mouth opening, saying words Mycroft can’t remember but that made Mycroft’s heart stop in his chest. The tired lines around his eyes and mouth, the way he had extended his hands towards him and Mycroft had… he had…

What had he done?

Hard as he tries, he can’t remember a damn thing. The migraine is now officially killing him and thinking becomes impossible, but the image stays with him, haunting him as he searches blindly around the room for  _ something _ . In the background, he can hear Gregory moving, calling for him, but Mycroft is too focused on trying to remember to pay any real attention to what he’s saying.

“For god’s sake, Mycroft, what’s going on?!” Gregory snaps, grabbing him by the wrist, stopping his useless trashing on the bedroom. He’s looking for something, something important, but what?

“Mycroft, love, please. Breathe. In and out. Come on, love, breath for me.”

He realizes the pain he’s in is partially the result of him not actually breathing and so he forces himself to do as his husband says, keeping his eyes glued to the other man’s, chest and head aching, allowing himself to be comforted by his partner’s soft and calm tone.

And Gregory looks concerned, terrified even and Mycroft hates himself a little for causing his husband so much pain, but then he remembers the image that is now burned into his brain and he wonders, over and over again: What the hell did he do? What the hell did he do to make Gregory, his sweet, darling Gregory look like that?

He wants to ask. He knows he should. Is that the reason why Gregory has been acting so weird? Did they have some big argument and he allowed the worst of his temper get the best of him? Had he hurt his husband in some unspeakable way?

And suddenly he knows. He doesn’t remember and he’s not entirely sure it makes much sense but…

He knows.

_ He did. _

* * *

 

The meeting is going well, all things considered. It’s a relatively easy negotiation and so he could practically do it in his sleep, even if he’s not currently in the best state of mind. He thinks the swedish Ambassador is a tad too young for his current position and he obviously lacks experience, but he’s smart and a quick learner, so whichever small mistakes he makes, he manages to correct them almost right away, so all in all, it’s going well.

His notes on the previous reunion were… scarce, to be honest. Something had been clearly distracting him, although for the life of him, Mycroft can’t figure out what. He knows most of the other people in the meeting, going way back with a lot of them and so he assumes the previous meeting ran smoothly, so he can’t imagine what prompted such short notes from him.

They’re useful enough, though and he supposes that’s what matters.

He feels a feet bumping against his own underneath the table and he startles a little. In front of him, the swedish Ambassador smiles coyly, although he keeps his eyes fixed on Lord Greenwood who’s going on about… something. The man has a tendency to get derailed and Mycroft suspects he’ll soon have to intervene. Before he can decide on a polite way to interrupt though, he feels another soft bump against his feet and he frowns, thinking that was quite deliberate. He moves away a little, sitting a bit straighter and pulling his feet closer to his own chair, but the errant feet follows his movement and it takes every bit of his self control not to react when said feet starts running up and down his calf.

What the hell is happening?

He folds his legs impossibly closer to himself, careful to keep his expression perfectly blank. The swedish Ambassador expression falls a bit, but he recovers quickly since one of his advisers leans close to whisper something against his ear. Mycroft continues watching him in silence for a beat, wondering if that was what kept him so distracted during the last reunion.

It’s possible, he supposes. He’s not really used to receiving  _ that  _ type of attention from people, although it’s not completely unheard of either. Some politicians and ambassadors and whatnot have thought in the past it was a good way of getting into his good graces, but they were quickly made see the error of their ways. He might have… indulged, a lifetime ago, when he was much younger and much more desperate for affection (or something that resembled it, anyway) but now he’s older and wiser and knows it only makes things messy.

He glances at his right hand, resting on top of his knee and discreetly places it on the table, making sure his wedding ring catches the light. Even if he didn’t know better now, he’s a married man and he gets all the affection he needs from his husband, even if it’s clear as water he’s hiding something. But Gregory doesn’t shy away from his hugs or his kisses, although he’s been quite reluctant in engaging in other activities, although Mycroft is willing to believe the reason behind that is his concern for his well being.

He saw Dr. Stevens a couple of days ago, after all and she did say he needed to continue  _ taking it easy. _

He realizes he has become distracted and he scowls at himself, frustrated, before turning his attention back to the meeting, telling himself now is not the time to be worrying about his relationship.

He’ll think about it later.

* * *

 

“Mr. Holmes, if I might have a few words…?” the Ambassador trails off with a pleasant smile on his face and Mycroft’s first instinct is to say no. However, the meeting ended up going better than expected, in part due the man’s intervention and so he figures it’d be rude the decline, particularly when everybody’s attention is on them. Besides, now that negotiations are over, he hopes the young man has come to realize his… eh…  _ efforts _ on getting on Mycroft’s good side are no longer needed.

The moment the door closes though, he begins to suspect he made a huge miscalculation.

“Ambassador,” he says firmly, hands on his companion’s shoulders hoping the use of official titles will remind the young man what is at stake here and just how unprofessional he’s being. “That’s… I’d appreciate if you didn’t do that again.”

“You didn’t seem to mind last time,” the man says, smile sharp, stepping into his personal space once more, attempting to kiss him again.

Mycroft blinks, processing the information. Surely not. “I’ll have you know, I’m a happily married man.”

“Are you?” his companion asks, now cornering him against the desk, taking advantage of Mycroft’s confused state. “That wasn’t what you said last time.”

Most troubling. “Ambassador,” he repeats, finally pushing the man off. “If you’re going to go anywhere with your career, you must learn the meaning of the word  _ no. _ ”

The man opens his mouth to protest, but something in Mycroft’s face must convince him his advances are indeed much unwanted. He stares at him for a beat, a look of utter confusion on his handsome face before he huffs angrily, sharply turning on his heel and picking up his briefcase. “Suit yourself,” he says petulantly, stepping out of the room and closing the door with a bang.

How childish.

But of course, there are more pressing matters to consider right now. Surely this isn’t what it seems, surely he did not cheat on his wonderful husband. They might have argued and he might have been particularly angry about something, but he wouldn’t have done such thing, particularly not knowing how much Gregory had been affected by his despicable ex-wife’s behavior. Mycroft wouldn’t…

Would he?

* * *

 

“Anthea.”

The woman looks up from her phone, his tone having startled her. She’s very smart and a terrific assistant, who knows the inner works of his mind well enough to know when he needs her whole focus.

“Yes, sir?” she prompts, after a brief pause in which he can’t bring himself to ask what he must.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Is there… did I…” he closes his eyes and the image that pained him so this morning comes forefront right away, giving him the courage to ask. “Do you happen to know if there was…  _ something  _ going on with the swedish Ambassador?”

“Something, sir?” she asks, tone carefully neutral, and while she’s good at keeping her face from betraying her thoughts, there’s something in her tone that suggests she does know something.

“Anthea,” he prompts, although his tone is pleading and she bites her lip, looking away.

“I do not know for sure,” she replies carefully, keeping her eyes trained on the wall.

“What do you know?” he asks calmly, or as calmly as he can, considering how his heart is beating erratically inside his chest.

“You locked yourselves into your private office for some time during the last meeting. You… specifically asked me not to interrupt.” She looks at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “From what I could observe, clothes were kept on.”

Good god. “But--”

“Sir, please do not make me describe it,” she says, briefly glancing at him. 

Mycroft nods, figuring he doesn’t need to know more. Except-- “Does Gregory know?”

Anthea shakes her head. “You were quite emphatic about that too. And since you went well out of your way to keep me from talking to your husband for the last 6 months...”

Why? “Why?” he asks out loud and Anthea hesitates before sighing defeatedly.

“There’s something you need to see,” she says ominously, turning on her heel, evidently expecting him to follow. And while every instinct in his body is telling him to turn away, to run away from this no doubt painful truth…

He knows he can’t.

* * *

 

His CCTV network across the city has proved to be useful more than a couple of times in the past and, back on those days when he was silently pining, he’s a little ashamed to admit he might have spent more time than what was healthy reviewing the feed where a certain DI appeared. It was… perhaps a tad stalker-y, but what Gregory doesn’t know can’t possibly hurt him and it’s not like he ever intruded in his privacy (much).

Now though… well. There are people assigned to keep an eye on suspicious activity across the city and a couple of the team members are tasked with watching Mycroft’s family, namely his brother (and by extension Dr. Watson) and his husband. They’re supposed to report if they run across any danger (which Sherlock does with a certain frequency) but Mycroft is not alerted unless it’s a life or death matter.

He does try to respect people’s privacy, which is why he rarely ever reviews the surveillance tapes on his brother himself. He’s a bit controlling, he knows and it’s something he’s been working on, particularly when it comes to his husband since Gregory doesn’t particular care for his paranoid tendencies and so, in an effort to keep his partner happy, Mycroft promised he would keep track of his movements for his peace of mind, but he wouldn’t actually watch the tapes himself, trusting his people to alert him if something came to pass.

He had thought it was a promise he had maintained, but it seems he hadn’t.

He tapes his fingers over his desk, sparing a quick look in Anthea’s direction. The woman however isn’t paying him any mind, eyes glued to the screen, searching for something and Mycroft resigns himself to wait, worrying himself sick about what he might see.

“There,” Anthea says, finally pausing her fast forwarding of the tape and letting it play at its regular speed. Mycroft frowns, but doesn’t comment, leaning forward on instinct, watching the screen intently.

The video shows a small non descriptable café in a street that looks vaguely familiar but Mycroft can’t quite identify just yet. There are a few tables outside, although they are all empty save one. A woman is sitting with her back at the camera, but when she half turns to ask the waiter for something, Mycroft catches a good look of her profile and his frown deepens.

A few minutes later, the waiter comes back with a cup of coffee that he places on the table before quickly disappearing back inside the café. Seconds later, another man approaches the place and the woman greets him by standing up and hugging him close. Mycroft clenches his jaw, but forces himself to relax shortly after, telling himself he ought not to let his senseless jealousy get the best of him: it’s entirely too early to be drawing conclusions, although…

Anthea fast forwards the video once more and while the images pass entirely too quickly, there’s nothing to suggest the couple on the screen are doing anything other than talking, keeping a decent distance from one another.

It doesn’t ease Mycroft’s worry one bit.

Anthea plays the video at normal speed once again and Mycroft takes a deep breath as he watches his husband saying goodbye to his ex-wife. Gregory lets her hug him again, but his body is tense, not quite comfortable and Mycroft tells himself he only allows it because he’s too polite to do anything else.

It’s not much of a consolation, really.

He realizes Anthea has put on another video feed and he notices it’s from another day. Now he’s indeed quite familiar with this particular surveillance point: it’s the front of the building where Gregory (and his ex-wife)’s flat used to be.

He watches in silence as his husband comes into view. He moves with quiet determination, entering the building without any hesitation. Yet more fast forwarding in the video and he sees his husband exiting the building once more, looking well put together although it’s evident he’s been running his fingers through his hair repeatedly.

Or at least he hopes he was the one messing his hair.

A quick glance at the top of the screen tells him his husband stayed inside the building for a little under three hours: too much time, if you ask him. He can barely breathe, let alone speak, dread filling his every pore. Surely not. Surely even if his Gregory decided to cheat on him (and he wouldn’t blame him, not really, because he does know he can be…  _ challenging _ ), he wouldn’t do it with that wretched woman who hurt him so.

And yet--

It’s not conclusive evidence, of course. For all he knows Gregory and his ex wife were simply  _ talking  _ although the fact that his husband failed to mention such a meeting is indeed troubling. Then again, he can’t tell for sure if Gregory said something, can he? He certainly doesn’t remember watching these tapes, so maybe he just doesn’t remember that particular conversation.

“Did I… did I know about these meetings?” he asks, not looking at Anthea.

“No, sir,” she says, tone flat. “You were informed of them by one of the members of the surveillance team.”

He takes a deep breath. “Did I… did I confront Gregory over the subject?”

“No, sir,” she replies calmly. “You choose a… different approach.”

Good god. “Did the first meeting with the swedish delegation took place after this?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft nods, feeling oddly detached. “I’m afraid it’s not all, sir,” Anthea says, after a long pause and Mycroft finally looks in her direction. She bites her lip, before opening the top drawer of his desk and removing the fake bottom. Mycroft frowns, realizing it hadn’t occurred him to look in there ever since he came back to work.

With a sense of foreboding, he accepts the documents Anthea passes him. He starts reading and he just needs to read the first line to know what’s going on.

God.

And he thought he (they) had been happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, we don’t have all the facts, so please don’t be too harsh on either of the poor, confused boys. Also, I’m unsure about whether to have them actually talk in the next chapter or let the angst continue for a little while… thoughts?  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! The boys are finally talking, but I’m still unconvinced that’s a good thing :P However, I hope you’ll enjoy it (and that it’ll make sense to you).  
> Without further ado, on with the chapter!

Greg knows something is wrong the moment Mycroft comes into the living room. His stomach sinks immediately at the sight of his husband’s expression, knowing right away this little ruse is over. A part of him feels relieved, the guilt easing a little, although for the most part he can feel anxiety crawling over his spine, wondering if this is the end of his marriage.

“You remembered,” he states as calmly as he can, fists clenched over his lap, trying to keep his body from betraying how tense he is. His blunt nails dig into the skin of his palms and the pain is nowhere near distracting enough, so he bites the inside of his cheek harshly, trying to keep inside the arguments and excuses he’s already coming up with: he knows they’ll be of no use and might even make matters worse.

“No,” Mycroft replies plainly, carefully divesting himself of his heavy coat, hanging it by the door along with his umbrella. He picks up his briefcase once again and moves closer to the couch, resting it on the coffee table in the living room. Greg watches him, barely daring the breath, not quite sure what to make of his simple answer.

“No?” he repeats finally, suddenly feeling too tired to play a guessing game. “Then what happened?”

Mycroft sighs, taking some documents out of his briefcase and handing them to Greg. For a minute, he refuses to even look at them, but eventually he caves in under his husband’s scrutiny and he starts reading.

So this is it. If you had asked him a month ago how would he feel if his husband handed him divorce papers, he’d have said he’d be devastated, but right now he just feels hollow. He supposes he knew it was coming, even if these last past weeks have lulled him into a false sense of security. In any case, at least it means he can stop trying.

He’s just so damn tired.

“Do you expect me to just sign them, then?” he asks, half standing, ready to go looking for a pen. “I’ll need a couple of days to find a place to stay and pick up my things, but I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I--”

He interrupts himself, noticing his husband has sunk into the couch, close to where he was sitting, far too close, but not quite close enough to touch him. Greg frowns, sitting down once again, leaving the papers on the table, feeling wrong footed.

“So it’s true,” Mycroft murmurs finally, looking at him. “Things weren’t going well between us.”

Greg can’t help the bitter chuckle that escapes him. “Understatement of the century, really,” he murmurs, shaking his head sadly. “The divorce papers should have clued you in.”

Mycroft shakes his head, expression pitched tight. “That’s not… I don’t understand,” he confesses softly, sounding brokenhearted and Greg’s own heart clenches painfully inside his chest. “I can’t remember a damn thing,” he’s clenching and unclenching his fists, looking haunted. “All I remember-- what I remember clear as day, is the way I feel about you. Everything else… it just makes no sense!”

Greg’s lips curve up briefly, the smile too bitter to be called that. “You’re telling me…” he whispers, all the pain and frustration he’s been feeling for so long resurfacing. 

Mycroft is watching him in silence, eyes infinitely sad. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks gently, leaning closer but still not touching him. It’s evident he wants to and Greg thinks maybe it’d be reassuring for them both, but given the circumstances…

“Why do you think?”

They sit in silence for a while and Greg keeps his eyes fixed on the coffee table and the documents lying on top of it. He closes his eyes, remembering all too well his last fight with Mycroft. It’s evident his husband had been planning on a divorce long before that particular argument and yet he still does not know what he did wrong. 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft murmurs, placing a hand on top of Greg’s knee, startling him. The touch is tentative, feather light and it makes something within Greg ache fiercely. He pulls away and Mycroft reaches out briefly, but seems to think better of it soon enough.

“You said you don’t remember,” Greg states. “Did you find the papers or…?” he trails off awkwardly, his skin feeling too tight, an itch beneath it he can not hope to scratch.

“Ah,” Mycroft says, standing up and turning his back to him. He pinches his nose, a clear sign he does not like what he’s about to confess and Greg can feel dread filling his stomach. “I was… I had a meeting today. A follow up from a previous meeting with a swedish delegation.” He licks his lips nervously and while Greg can’t see his whole profile, he knows his husband well enough to know that whatever he’s about to say can’t be a good thing, even if he doesn’t understand what’s going on. “Apparently… it seems the swedish Ambassador might have made some…  _ advances _ during the previous reunion and apparently I wasn’t… I might have…”

The first time Greg realized he was being cheated on, he felt his world crumbling around him. The sensation of drowning had been so overwhelming he had thought he’d never recover; he was half convinced he’d simply go mad with grief and anger. But he had chosen to forgive (although he never quite managed to forget) and yet it had happened over and over again, until he stopped feeling anything at all. Indifference, his mother had once said, is the true opposite of love and as he watched his previous marriage fall apart, he remembers thinking she couldn’t be more right.

Now though--

It explains some things, he supposes. “So that’s it?” he asks, staring at the half moons his nails have digged into his palms. “There’s someone else?”

“No!” Mycroft exclaims, falling on his knees next to him, reaching for his hand right away. “No, I… I don’t… It wasn’t… it meant nothing,” he assures him eagerly and Greg huffs, shaking his head. 

“You can not--”

“You met with your ex-wife.”

Greg blinks, processing the information. “What?” he asks, honestly puzzled, feeling like he’s missing something.

Mycroft sighs, coming to sit next to him again, this time leaving more space between them. “Your security feed. There was… a few months ago, you met with your ex wife…” he trails off and Greg blinks owlishly, still not quite understanding what his husband is going on about.

“Oh god,” he murmurs finally, as things start coming together inside his head. “You… I… Well, yes, I met with Carol around 7 months ago but that was… it was…”   
“You didn’t tell me about it.”

“It wasn’t important!” Greg exclaims, standing up and throwing his arms up in desperation, the rollercoaster of emotions he’s been feeling for so long finally making him snap. “It was so absolutely meaningless that it didn’t even cross my mind that that was the reason behind your behavior! Good god Mycroft, what did you think was going on? Not only did you think me capable of cheating, but with my damn ex-wife?”

Mycroft has the decency to look ashamed, avoiding Greg’s eyes and he forces himself to take a deep breath, unwilling to let his temper get the best of him. “Carol has… she’s been seeing someone. A psychologist, I mean. It was… apparently she’s going through a rough patch and I… I don’t know. Her psychologist suggested… I don’t know. I honestly don’t understand how that was supposed to work out, but I agreed to meet her because I… I loved her once. And despite it all, I didn’t want her to be miserable forever more.” He hadn’t liked the idea one bit, truth to be told. He had been quite reluctant to meet, actually, but she had sound rather awful on the phone and Greg couldn’t, in good conscience, just turn his back on her.

Maybe he should have. If he had known what it might cost him, he might have. Then again… “And I thought we agreed you’d respect my privacy?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees quietly. “I don’t know what exactly happened. Still-- you could have told me.”

“And you could have asked me,” Greg argues back. “You could have talked to me, instead of, you know, going behind my back--”

“I know!” Mycroft snaps, standing up too, coming to stand toe to toe with Greg. “I know! I was a fool and I can not honestly explain my actions, I can’t begin to apologize for them, but Gregory I… I… I love you.”

Greg’s heart flutters inside his chest. God, how did this happen? “Do you have any idea… Mycroft, these last few months…”

“I know,” Mycroft murmurs, taking his hands in his and squeezing softly. “Or rather, I don’t. I wish I could give you a better explanation for my behaviour, but my memory is just as blank as it was when I first woke up at the hospital. But I… I do apologize for all the ways I’ve hurt you.”

It’s a start, Greg supposes, but it’s not even close to being enough. And he knows he loves his husband and god knows he wants to stay with him; he never wanted to lose him but this… all this…

It’s just too much.

“I think-- I need some time.”

“Gregory--”

“Mycroft, I-- I love you too. And ever since you lost your memory I’ve been trying to win you back, to woo you again so that even if you got your memory back you might give us another chance but learning all this… I need to think.”

For a moment, Greg thinks his husband will protest. And he wants him to, he honestly wants him to try to convince him to stay, he wants to be convinced to stay but at the same time…

“Alright,” Mycroft murmurs, taking a step back and with every bit of space he puts between them the room seems to grow colder. “I… I understand.”

Greg nods tightly. He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t know what, but soon decides it’s better like this. He needs time to cool down, to think and try to decide what he wants to do now.

God, what a night.

And he suspects, things are just about to get more complicated.

* * *

 

As he stands outside 221B Baker Street, Greg contemplates the merits of actually knocking on the door. Coming to his brother-in-law’s flat might not be his greatest idea ever and he doubts there’s much Sherlock can do in terms of providing reassurance, but where else can he go? He knows Sally would let him kip on her sofa, but she’s not a Holmes-fan (of Sherlock in particular, but her animosity has been extended to Greg’s husband too) and the last thing Greg needs right now is someone encouraging him to call things off with Mycroft.

Molly would probably have been the wisest choice, now that he thinks about it, but her flat is in the other side of the city and now he’s too tired to go there instead. Maybe tomorrow, if things continue looking as grim--

“Hey Greg,” John says, opening the door without him having knocked. “Sherlock saw you through the window,” he explains at his puzzled expression and Greg sighs, figuring it’s too late to change his mind.

“Right,” he murmurs, nodding to himself with determination before stepping into the foyer. John smiles encouragely, gesturing for him to go first. With something that feels like resignation, Greg climbs the stairs, growing more and more convinced this wasn’t the best of his ideas.

“Ah, finally,” Sherlock states, turning to Greg the minute he steps into the flat. “I was wondering if you were ever going to come in or if you were going to stay outside forever, contemplating your poor life choices.”

“Sherlock,” John chides, although his tone is full of affection. The consulting detective huffs, but doesn’t comment, turning back to his quiet contemplation of the street. John gestures for Greg to take a seat as he heads towards the kitchen, to put the kettle on.

“He recovered his memory, I take it?” Sherlock asks, after a long tense silence and Greg sighs, leaning back on the sofa.

“No. But he… certain  _ developments  _ lead him to figure out things weren’t going well between us,” Greg says, rubbing his breastbone absentmindedly, keenly aware of the way his heart is breaking all over again. Before the accident life had been hell, with Mycroft acting so cold and distant and now that he knows he’s been cheated on (again)... well, it just adds insult to the injury.

“Explain,” Sherlock demands, in his usual bossy tone and while the last thing Greg wants to do is actually explain…

That’s exactly what he does.

* * *

 

Sherlock is now sitting at his usual spot, fingers entwined underneath his chin as he thinks about Greg’s tale. John has come back, bearing tea and he took a seat at the sofa, listening and looking at Greg with something that feels an awful lot like pity.

“I mean… I know I made a mistake,” Greg says, when the silence has been going on for too long. “I should have told him about Carol, but I just… honestly, I just…”

“It doesn’t really justify Mycroft’s actions, though,” John says, sparing a quick glance at Sherlock. “As you said, he should have talked to you.”

Sherlock huffs, sitting up straighter. “It’s like you don’t know my brother at all,” he says flippantly, waving a hand. “Since when does he like talking about his  _ feelings _ ?” 

“I’m his husband,” Greg argues back. “He should talk to me.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “It certainly wasn’t the example we were given at home. Mummy was an expert in throwing veiled complaints and reproaches whenever something had happened, although she never gave much hint about what she was going on about,” he pauses, reaching for his half abandoned tea cup. “It’s certainly easier to try to get even than to talk things out.”

Greg thinks about this briefly. He does know that despite the image the Holmes parents project to the world, the reality of their family life is far from ideal, although it’s not something Mycroft is willing to talk about. “So what? I should write the whole thing off as nothing?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock argues calmly. “But before you make any decisions, perhaps it’d be better if I tried to explain what my brother might have been thinking.”

“Did you know?” Greg asks, slightly annoyed. “Did you know why he had gotten so distant?”

“No,” Sherlock answers easily. “I was aware he felt hurt about something, but even I have trouble reading Mycroft. I did try to get him to open up, much against my better judgement since, you know, I don’t enjoy talking about feelings any more than he does, but he wouldn’t budge. I did know about the divorce papers… but I wasn’t convinced telling you was in anyone’s best interests.” Greg closes his eyes, another sharp stab of hurt piercing his chest, but he nods, knowing Sherlock’s probably right. “However, with the information you’ve provided tonight… I have a theory.”

Greg nods once again, gesturing for him to continue. Sherlock hesitates for a beat, but a quick look in John’s direction has him talking once more. “I doubt Mycroft honestly thought you were cheating on him, although it’s very likely the worst of his insecurities reared their ugly head. He’s… I don’t think he ever fully grasped the idea you actually loved him, I think that even when you agreed to marry him he has his doubts about whether or not you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him. It’s not something we’ve openly discussed, certainly not in so many words, but it’s a subject we’re… quite similar on.”

John reaches for Sherlock’s hand, squeezing once and the younger man smiles briefly, before carrying on with his tale. “When you failed to mention your first encounter with your ex wife and then you went ahead and met her again… he was probably quite angry and hurt. And for all his calculating nature, my brother can be quite impulsive and as I said, what we learned in our early childhood is that you don’t talk about feelings, you strike back with all your might. And so he didn’t stop to think and did what he knew would hurt you the worst.”

Yes, of course. After all of Carol’s cheating… Mycroft would know infidelity was a sore spot with Greg. Then again, he’s not convinced Mycroft ever intended for him to find out about the Ambassador, so… “And then?” he prompts.

Sherlock pursues his lips, evidently thinking carefully about his next words. “He regretted it. But by the time he did, he probably thought he was in too deep and he probably convinced himself that his actions proved that you indeed were better off without him, so he started pushing you away. It was… it probably was hurting him just as much if not more than it was hurting you, but that was of course part of the plan. It was, after all, penance for his crime.”

Jesus. Isn’t that one hell of a convoluted train of thought? “So he was… punishing himself.”

“And trying to save you from himself,” Sherlock agrees. “I’m not saying it makes much sense or that it justifies in any way what he did but… I do believe my brother was doing what he thought best. For you, mainly.”

“It’s plain crazy,” Greg says, guilt curling in his gut. He’s known Mycroft isn’t a particularly self assured person, despite the image he projects to the world, but all this… it just seems…

God. “But I… I was so brokenhearted. I kept asking him to give us another chance, to try--”

“Yes and as I said, it’s really no justification, but Mycroft couldn’t forgive himself for what he had done and the damage it would have done to your relationship. And he certainly didn’t believe he deserved your forgiveness.”

God, it’s just too twisted. And Greg aches for his husband, for all the pain he went through in silence, for all the horrible ways he came up with to torture himself, for all the hurt it could have been avoided if he had only talked to him…

And beneath it all, he realizes he still loves him, maybe even more now than ever but can he truly put all this mess behind them? And if he can, how can he know it won’t happen again? Sure, he can try to keep his husband updated on his every move, but that’s plain crazy and controlling and it’s his own damn life! He shouldn’t have to answer to anyone! He shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells, always careful about what he does and what he says and how he says it only to keep his husband from panicking and doing something foolish.

“I believe,” Sherlock says, after a long pause. “That you need to talk to him. If you’re going to move forward, you need to work this out.”

Greg nods, his tiredness finally overwhelming him. He rubs his temples, trying to fight off an oncoming migraine and he stands up on unsteady feet, “you don’t mind if I stay in the upstairs bedroom, right?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but John beats him to it. “Of course,” he says, a kind smile of his lips. “For as long as you need.”

Greg nods and he heads straight for the stairs, ignoring the concerned look his companions are exchanging behind his back. He has way too much to think about but first, he needs to take a nap.

Maybe things will look less grim in the morning.

One can only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I hope the last part made sense to you. It makes all the sense of the world inside my head, but I’m worried about how well it translates. Also, I think it would have been better having Mycroft explaining his own train of thought, but it wasn’t working and I figured it’d be easier to have Sherlock do it. Besides, considering neither is particularly fond of talking about feelings, it made sense that they’d find it easier explaining what the other was thinking.  
> Hope that made sense :P   
> Also, I’m worried about continuity. Greg’s reactions do make sense, right?  
> Anyway, let me know what you thought, pretty please? The next (and final) chapter should be ready at some point during next week, since I have an awful lot of work to do :P  
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Taking chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The final chapter! Despite my boss best efforts to get me to do my actual work, I managed to finish it ;)  
> I finished this last night, but decided to give it some more thought. I do hope it makes sense and, hopefully all the angst will pay off now :P  
> Enjoy!

“With all due respect, you look like crap, sir.”

Mycroft groans in acknowledgement and Anthea holds back a huff, picking up the discarded bottle of scotch and making a face, noticing it’s mostly empty. No wonder he doesn’t want to move. “Get up now,” she orders sternly,, hands linked primly in front of her.

“I don’t feel like moving,” Mycroft argues, burying his face on the couch and it takes every bit of her self control not to roll her eyes dramatically, keeping a blank professional expression on her face.

“Afraid can’t do, sir. We’ve got a meeting with--”

“Cancel it.”

“But sir--”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he announces stubbornly, turning his back at her, a mighty feature considering how narrow the couch is and how little space he has to maneuver.

This time she does roll her eyes. “Sir, you can not possibly stay here and wallow in self pity. Tempting as you might find it, your country needs you.”

“Oh, fuck that,” Mycroft argues and Anthea arches an eyebrow, surprised beyond words. Her boss rarely ever resorts to vulgarity and he’s generally a very duty-bound man so his behavior is most… unusual, to say at least.

She takes a deep breath, bracing herself for what is to come, carefully sitting on the edge of the couch, mindful of Mycroft’s long legs. “Sir, drinking yourself to oblivion and sleeping all day won’t make Inspector Lestrade come back.”

“I know,” Mycroft murmurs, sounding terribly young and vulnerable. “I just… I don’t… Anthea, what did I do?”

She starts humming a lullaby her mother used to sign to her, running her fingers through the man’s hair soothingly. It’s a very rare sight, to see her boss this affected over something but she’s been with him long enough to know all the best ways to calm him down.

“As I told you before, I’m not entirely sure,” she says, careful to keep her tone soft and calming. “But I do believe that, given the current circumstances, you’ve done the best you could. If there was any chance to save your relationship… telling the truth was a must.”

He nods absentmindedly. “I should just have talked to him.”

“I did suggest that,” she points out, her lips curving in a sad smile. “And you did your very best to stop me from talking to the Inspector. It was, quite frankly, ridiculous, the extremes you went to.”

He doesn’t ask and she doesn’t offer any more information. There’s no need to burden him with any more guilt than the one he’s already feeling and besides, she’s not really mad anymore. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs after a long silence and Anthea hums in acknowledgement. “I should know by now that I ought to listen to you.”

She can’t help to chuckle at that. “Well, you did point out that, considering my track record on love matters, I couldn't exactly claim any wisdom on the subject.”

Mycroft has the decency to cringe and Anthea can’t help smiling a little. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, looking rather dejected.

She shrugs casually. “It’s not like it isn’t true,” she murmurs. “Besides, if I’ve learned anything in all these years working with you, is that you’ve got to have a tick skin, if you’re going to survive this job.”

Mycroft hums, amused before sitting up. “I suppose you’re right. Which of course it also means, one can not take off days to lick one’s proverbial wounds.”

She smiles, squeezing his arm once before standing up. “He’ll come back, sir. You can be sure of that.”

Mycroft attempts to smile back, but fails rather miserably.

Somehow, he can’t really believe it.

* * *

 

In retrospective, keeping quiet might have been smartest.

Not healthier or fairer or right, but smartest. Pretending everything was _peachy_ would have saved him of a lot of heartache, although he realizes it would have continued hurting Gregory. Then again...

God, he’s so selfish sometimes. He truly doesn’t deserve him.

Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly, already feeling another migraine coming. Dr. Stevens said trying to force himself to remember would do nothing but give him headaches, but he honestly couldn’t care less about that right now. The more he tries to make sense of what he remembers and what he now knows, the less sense it all makes. He _adores_ his husband. Even if he was mad with jealousy, even if he felt angry and betrayed…

He reaches for the bottle of whisky and hesitates briefly. Drinking himself to oblivion is far from the answer to his problems, he knows, but it’s so much easier. He does not want to think about what he did and he does not wish to contemplate what it might cost him. He should have confessed he knew things had been going badly between them, he should have told Gregory about the tapes but…

There was no need to tell him about the Ambassador. It was the truth, yes and he understands honesty is important between partners, but wouldn’t it have been kinder to keep that a secret? Gregory had already suffered so much on his behalf, why did he have to dig a deeper hole for himself?

He had seen how badly Gregory had coped after his ex wife’s infidelity, he had seen how badly it had affected him. He has always known it was the one thing his husband would never forgive of him, but he had never thought it was something they really needed to worry about. Mycroft has never had much interest in other people, his libido almost non existent: before Gregory he had only had two other sexual partners and those occasions were born more out of curiosity (about what the fuss was about the first time and an experiment to see if he really was an uninterested in sex as he had been in his teenage years much later in life) than any real desire to be with someone. He understands that, whatever he did with the Ambassador, was born out of anger and desperation, a need to prove himself that he wasn’t completely undesirable: that even if his husband no longer wanted him, there always could be others.

It was sheer idiocy and further proof that he’s just not fit to be in a relationship. Certainly not with a man such as his Gregory, who deserves the world and has yet only found lousy fits for him. He remembers thinking the former Mrs. Lestrade was clearly out of her mind and he remembers all the anger he felt towards the wretched woman for hurting such a perfect man in so many ways. He wonders if he’ll soon too be Gregory’s ex, who was not only cruel but idiotic enough to cheat on him.

God, how he hopes not. How he hopes he’ll get the chance to make amends, although he knows, rationally, that there’s little chance for that. Still--

Hope dies last.

* * *

 

“You do cut a rather pathetic figure.”

Mycroft holds back a groan and instead pretends to focus on his computer’s screen. His eyes are red rimmed, although it has little to do with the fact he’s been staring at said screen for 10 hours straight and more to do with his depressing thoughts that he seems incapable of pushing to the back of his mind so he can focus on his bloody work.

He always knew this love-business was bad for the mind. And yet--

“Is there any particular reason for your visit, brother dear?” he asks pointedly, looking up when the silence becomes too unbearable. Sherlock has made himself at home on one of his chairs, lounging placidly, watching Mycroft with a carefully disinterested expression that in facts betrays his apprehension.

“Lestrade is staying with us. John insisted I let you know, although I did point out you probably knew already; why with your many eyes across London…” He smirks a little and Mycroft looks away, having been reminded of the promise he broke and the foolish way he had reacted afterwards.

Sherlock huffs, frustrated and drops his non chalantant facade, leaning forward, his elbows now resting over Mycroft’s desk. “Did you even try to apologize?”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to huff. Of course he did, but it matters not. “What do you think that’d accomplish? We’re past the point were a simple “I’m sorry” would be enough.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees, linking his hands beneath his chin. “But it shows an interest in making up. A… willingness to change your behaviour, to _think_ before you act.”

Mycroft hums, staring at his screen once more. He does not like when Sherlock acts this mature and self controlled: it makes him feel painfully young and inadequate. He is the oldest one, Sherlock has no business acting as if Mycroft is the one who needs someone to rely on.

“Mycroft,” his brother says softly, placing a hand on top of his, startling him. “Please. Let me help.”

The honest concern and the softness in his brother’s eyes make him ache fiercely. _This isn’t how things are supposed to go._

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says and to his great horror, Mycroft realizes he said that _out loud._ “You’re my brother. And you might be the oldest, but that does not mean you don’t need my support from time to time.”

He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to get over emotional. “Well then. Do grace me with your wisdom, brother dear.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, but doesn’t comment. He knows the sarcasm is just another one of Mycroft’s ways of coping with uncomfortable conversations. “We-- John and I, I mean-- have been seeing a therapist. Now, I know your opinion on the subject but considering the many _many_ issues we both have, we decided to give it a try. Because, you know, we actually want things to work between us because we do want to spend the rest of our lives together.” He scrunches his nose, probably sensing he has said too much. It probably has also something to do with Mycroft’s small, fond smile: he can not express how happy it makes him to see his brother has found someone he loves and who loves him back just as fiercely.

“We have a session every Thursday and I go on my own on Mondays. It’s… well. Not easy or enjoyable and in fact it’s painfully awkward but I think it’s really helping me work through my… our… issues. I know we had a pretty screwed up childhood but one can’t go around justifying every fuck up thing we do with that.”

True enough, he supposes. “I’m not sure--”

“If you’re going to do this,” Sherlock interrupts sternly. “You need to do it not only for Lestrade’s sake but for your own too. And I think-- I really _really_ think-- it’d be good for you. You’ve carried too much hurt and self reproach on your shoulders for far too long.”

Mycroft bites his lip, feeling tears in the corners of his eyes, moved by his brother’s very evident concern and _affection._ Their relationship being what it is, they rarely allow the other to see how deeply they truly feel, but this… this…

“Make sure to leave your therapist’s contact information with Anthea,” he says, once he has recovered his control well enough not to risk his voice breaking and a tasteless emotional display.

Sherlock smiles, a little teary eyed himself and he nods, before standing up dramatically. “Good. Not that I don’t appreciate Lestrade, but I do hate being quiet when John--”

“Sherlock!” he yells, at the top of his lungs, thinking there are certain mental images older brothers do no need. Sherlock grins, satisfied with himself and he hurries out of the office, giggling to himself.

Mycroft just shakes his head, amused.

* * *

 

Maybe some people are just not meant to be happy.

It’s a depressive thought and Greg recognizes there’s no real truth in the statement, even if it certainly feels that way some days. When he had first learned Carol had been cheating on him, he spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to make sense of it, wondering what he could do have done differently. In many ways, he believed himself to blame: if he hadn’t worked as much, if he had been around more…

After seeing the mess he had become, his mother hadn’t hesitated to knock some sense into him. In her words, cheating is a personal decision: no one can steal someone’s lover if said lover does not wish to be stolen.

And yet, he had tried to work things out. Again, his mother had said he was entirely too forgiving, but Greg just couldn’t imagine walking out on someone he had promised _till death did them part._

Of course, that was nearly a decade ago. He did end up divorcing Carol, because while he was willing to try to make their relationship work, _she wasn’t_ and relationships are a two way street. And his mother is long gone now too, but if she was still here, she’d probably tell him he’s being foolish: is he going to spend another eight years married to someone who hasn’t been faithful to him?

But it’s a widely different situation, he thinks. Because… well, Mycroft did _mean to_ , of course, but he recognized the error of his ways fairly quickly. Of course, instead of doing the rational _decent_ thing and talking to Greg about his worries and the mistake he had made, he made things far worse by pushing Greg away, all the way breaking his heart into a millionth pieces.

Or at least that’s what apparently happened. No way of telling for sure, considering the memory-issue.

He taps his fingers against his desk, absentmindedly gazing at the pile of paperwork sitting on top of it. He hasn’t been able to focus on his work properly and he knows it’s just a matter of time before one of the higher ups notices. They might cut him some slack, taking pity of his situation (his husband’s accident, not the infidelity-bit. God, the last thing he needs is someone to find out about that). Still, it might be better not push his luck.

Forgiveness is never easy. And for someone who has been betrayed so by the people he has trusted with his heart…

Well. Tricky doesn’t begin to cover it.

* * *

 

Greg hesitates outside the building, doubting his decision for the millionth time. But the truth is that he always knew he’d end up here again: it might be foolish and unwise and there’s a fine line between being a hopeless romantic and being an outright idiot but he thinks… no, he wants to believe…

Love is all about taking chances. You never know what might be waiting for you on the other side, but if you don't’ take that leap of faith, you’ll never know for sure. And he thinks that knowing, even if the knowledge is unpleasant or painful, is a millionth times better than living with the _what ifs_.

With that thought in mind, he enters the building and heads straight for their flat.

It’s time for a much needed conversation.

* * *

 

He’s not quite sure what he’s expecting when he enters the flat, but it’s certainly not the sight that greets him.

Greg sighs, taking in the mess the flat overall is and he carefully makes his way through the mining field their living room has turned into. Mycroft isn’t at the kitchen and a quick look into their bedroom proves he’s not there either. His husband had wanted them to buy a ridiculous big, fancy house but Greg had put his foot down and insisted on much more practical living arrangements, which means there’s only one room left to look in.

He sighs, making his way to the guest bedroom which was his bedroom for the last months, right until Mycroft’s accident. The door is closed and no sound comes from within, but that doesn’t necessarily means anything. He takes a deep breath, gathering his courage and pushes the door open, peeking into the room, feeling like an intruder in his own home.

Mycroft is indeed in the room, lying death to the world on the bed. There are signs he went through the night table’s drawers and Greg sighs, taking in the little things that are lying haphazardly across the room. He had moved most of his personal belongings here and he’s a little surprised Mycroft didn’t ask about it the day he came home from the hospital: he should have noticed something was amiss and if Greg hadn’t been so lost in his own worries and guilt, he would have questioned his husband’s silence on the subject much earlier.

He wonders if, on some level, Mycroft knew something was off. And if he did, he wonders why he didn’t say anything.

So many questions. So many _lies._

And he supposes he has his fair share of blame too. Not for the meetings with Carol, because he still thinks it was a huge overreaction on Mycroft’s part but he should have done much more of an effort in trying to understand what the hell was going on. Maybe, if he had-- if he hadn’t--

But no. Recriminations are of absolute no use and they won’t help the matter one bit. What’s done is done and regardless of what they both might want, they’ve already hurt each other plenty. The past however, is in the past and what they need to decide is where they want to go from here.

He notices his husband’s breathing has changed, signaling he’s not asleep anymore. He turns to him and watches as Mycroft sits up, rubbing sleep off his eyes. “You’re here,” he murmurs, wonderingly, almost unbelieving and Greg’s heart aches for him.

“You look like a frightful mess,” he says. “Have you been eating? or sleeping?”

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “A little, now and then,” he replies and Greg supposes that’s not very reassuring, but it’s something. “I thought… I thought you might not come back.”

Greg hums. “And you resorted to such healthy coping mechanisms,” he murmurs, sitting on the bed too, keeping some distance between them but not much. “Really, Mycroft, you need to work on those.”

“I know,” his companion agrees softly, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ve been reliably informed I’ve got many _issues_ I need to work through.”

That’s a puzzling statement, but Greg can read his husband’s hesitance to speak of the subject. Later, then. “I’ve missed you,” he confesses softly, reaching for Mycroft’s hand but not quite daring to touch him just yet. “And I wanted to home much sooner but I… I…”

“I understand,” Mycroft murmurs, gingerly pressing the tips of his fingers to Greg’s. “I wish… even if I remembered anything at all, I doubt I could give you much of an explanation. What I did, to you, to us… it’s unforgivable, really.”

Greg hums. “Not quite,” he whispers, staring at their touching-but-not hands. “But it’s not something we can just write off. I don’t… I’ll give you that I should have told you about Carol, but I swear--”

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupts and Greg has never liked anyone calling him by his full name but something about the way Mycroft says it… “this is, in no way, your fault.”

“There’s no much point in finding who’s at fault,” he argues, although he appreciates his husband’s willingness to acknowledge he blew it out of proportion, even if he doesn’t say it in so many words. “What is important now, is how we proceed.”

Mycroft is staring at him, an open look of vulnerability in his eyes. Greg wants to pull him into his arms and kiss his senseless, but he recognizes that’s not the best way to go now. “I love you,” he says earnestly, now resting his hand of top of the other’s man and his heart constricts when Mycroft squeezes back.

“And I you,” he says back, voice breaking just the tiniest bit. “What I did… and whichever my reasons for doing it… I shouldn’t have. I’m sure I regretted it and I went the worst possible way about it, I should have… oh, Gregory, I… to think of the hurt I caused you…”

Greg shakes his head because yes, apologizing is important but he’s not quite sure he wants to hear all this, particularly since his partner _doesn’t remember_ any of it. “I just… I felt so desperate,” he confesses. “So bereft. I didn’t know… I didn’t understand…” he realizes there are tears streaming down his face and he hurries to wipe them out, although he shouldn’t be ashamed of showing vulnerability in front of the love of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says, sliding closer, wrapping him into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

For a while, neither talks, both sorting through their emotions. It’s not enough, not by far and the damage that has been done can’t be simply overlooked, but what he wants, what he really wants-- “You can’t do that to me again,” he utters, clinging to the front of Mycroft’s shirt. “You can’t. I don’t… I can’t…”

“I won’t,” his companion promises earnestly, holding him just as fiercely. “I was an idiot. And I can’t… I can’t undo the past but I swear I’ll try my best to make it up to you. If you… if you give me the chance, that is.”

Greg chuckles brokenly. “Till death do us part, didn’t I say? And I meant it, Mycroft. I’ve come to realize you might have never fully believed me, but I do mean it.”

His husband nods, kissing the top of his head. “I… I’ll admit I found that hard to believe. Why would someone as marvelous as you--”

“Don’t start--”

“I’ve proved I’m not worthy of you,” he argues, pain noticeable in his every word. “But I’ll try. I swear to god, I’ll try. And I won’t mess up this time, I won’t--”

Greg wishes it was that simple. He wishes he could believe it and he wishes it was a promise easy to keep. But nothing about love is ever easy, he has learned, although that does not mean it’s not worth taking a chance.

“I love you,” he murmurs breathlessly, kissing his husband, pouring every bit of his love and his passion into the kiss. “I love you so bloody much. Please don’t do that to me again. I won’t resist it.”

“I won’t,” Mycroft swears, kissing him back just as lovingly, cradling his face between his hands as if he was something fragile and precious. “I’m so sorry. I won’t hurt you again.”

It’s not enough, not by far.

But it’s a start.

* * *

 

“Sherlock… recommended someone.”

Greg hums, a little puzzled by the statement, but too warm and content to worry overly much. He snuggles closer to his husband, resting his head on his chest, enjoying the closeness and the feeling of ease and happiness the afterglow usually brings.

“Yes, apparently he and Dr. Watson decided it was a good idea talking to someone else of their issues…”

Ah, so that’s where this is going. His gut reaction is to say no, both because he does remember how his last try at couple's therapy went and also because he finds talking to a third party not entirely enjoyable (far from it, actually)

But it might, in fact, be a good idea. He wishes their issues could be easily solved and that their heart-to-heart conversation from earlier was all they truly needed to move forward, but he knows it’s not that simple. And he does want this to work, he wants it so much, so maybe--

“I understand that given your past… experiences you might be reluctant to try and that’s fine, really, although I should probably tell you I’m going, on my own, because I don’t want… I do want to change for the better, Gregory. For you, of course, so I can be the man you deserve, but also for myself because… well. It’s just the right thing, isn’t it?”

Greg smiles, looking up at his husband, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Of course. I… It might not be easy or pleasant, but I do… I want us to work, love. And maybe it’ll work maybe it won’t, but I think… if we both want the same thing… well, we should try every option at our disposal, right?”

Mycroft smiles too, leaning to kiss Greg’s lips softly, almost chastely. “Indeed,” he leans back on the pillows, running a hand up and down Greg’s spine absentmindedly. “I did mean it too, you know? And you might find that hard to believe, considering my previous actions but I… I mean it too.”

Greg hums questioningly, by now feeling a little sleepy, his eyes closing on their own accord. “What, love?”

“Till death do us part.”

In lieu of an answer, Greg smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
>  
> 
> I said I wanted to write the ending in a believable way and I’m not sure I succeeded. Is it too simple? too easy? It’s not 100% happy, I think, but it definitely leaves the boys in the road to happiness, doesn’t it? I struggle like crazy writing emotionally charged dialogues, but I’m actually quite proud of what I accomplished here.
> 
>  
> 
> Now, I know a lot of people were hoping Mycroft would get his memories back. In terms of story telling, yes, that would have worked better, but here’s the thing: I’m a little biased. I said before that the movie “The Vow” inspired me for this particular work, even if it shares little with the movie’s actual plot. But a thing I loved about it, is how lovely and happy the ending is, without being perfect. She never recovers her memories and she and her husband do end up getting divorced but at the end… the end it’s what really makes it special for me and what got me thinking about people being mean to be. I’m a big old sap somewhere deep down and that ending just struck a chord with me.
> 
>  
> 
> So yeah, in terms of storytelling, it’s not perfect or ideal, but it’s my hope I made it work. I’ll leave it to you to judge if I really did or if it just feels like lazy writing :P
> 
>  
> 
> As usual, a million thanks for reading, leaving kudos and/or commenting! You guys are the best and what keeps me writing, even when my boss keeps trying to convince me to actually do my work ;)
> 
>  
> 
> I’m going to go back to finishing [Devil’s Bargain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13862835/chapters/31889961) and [Belonging](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14109939/chapters/32510781) now. I swear I’m not going to start posting another fic, never mind this new plot bunny is practically chewing my leg off with all the nibbling it’s doing ;) My FTH’s fic might be the exception, but that’ll depend on whether or not my auction winner/lovely beta gives me the good to go ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Again, I can’t thank you enough for your support! Thanks for reading, let me know what you thought, pretty please?

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> This is going to be angst fest, so be warned. In my defense, I’ve been writing quite a bit of fluff (I’m working on my FTH’s fic and while it has a tiny bit of angst in the first chapter, overall it’s on the sweet side) and the angst monster in me needs something to distract itself :P  
> I really like the idea, however. And what you must know it’s that this will end happily because as much as I love angst, I can not do unhappy endings :P  
> I’m torn about the tags. Should I add any others? I’m worried about whether or not there’s some element of dubious consent (I think yes, but I’m not sure?) so I’ll leave it tagged but do let me know what you think.  
> This should be on the shortish side, but I guess we’ll see ;) Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!  
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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